Sad that it's procrastinating working on my thesis that compels me to write in my blog. Oh well, at least right now I'm not where I can usually be found--nestled in the canyon in my couch, awe-struck by the demi-god I pray to on a daily basis, my TV.
Maybe it's just a small dose of being busy, mixed with two pinches of shame, a cup of sheer laziness, and a dollop of guilt that has been the recipe keeping me from updating for a while. But I can't quite hide it from the world any longer...I'm in retail.
Yes, yes, like serving drinks to the gays wasn't enough, I now get to have a bunch of Japs sidelining me on the floor at J.Crew asking for another size.
That's not my job, bitch.
I'm in the office at the Columbus Circle shop and responsible for sending out the catalog--or shall I get technical, locator--orders that swamp our database each day. No, it's not glamorous, but it's part time and I'm totally in it for the discount. However, I couldn't help but think on my first day, before anyone showed me the ropes in the office, when I was put in the fitting room to fold clothes that A) this is shit I should've done ten years ago when I was a bratty teenager B) I probably wouldn't have been such a brat if I actually had a job like this back then and C) no, I can't get you another color of that tank b/c I don't know if it matches with your cashmere A-line b/c I have a masters degree in creative writing and not fashion! (well, at least the mere suggestion of an actual degree anyway).
I'm thinking now that it would be enlightening to just get a new job every six months, one which I would probably have at one point turned my nose up at otherwise (basically, if I follow this system, I could very well be continually employing myself for the remainder of my existence.) I mean, if I now over-tip and fold my clothes neatly after using a fitting room, what next?
I should probably try my hand in a laundromat--maybe then I'll think twice about throwing my period panties in the hamper without batting an eye, just so the Asians can scrub them clean and return them to me, virtually, spotless.
A. You would have still been a brat (or shall we say, Bratalie), regardless of whether you had folded fitting room clothes in your teens;
B. Your next job will be flipping burgers at Micky D's; and
C. Merry Maids are hiring.
Posted by: DirtyLaundry | October 19, 2005 at 11:35 AM